


Moonlighting

by ProfessorFrankly



Series: Evil Author Day 2019 [1]
Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 13:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17768072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFrankly/pseuds/ProfessorFrankly
Summary: What’s Q up to? And why did he leave MI6?





	Moonlighting

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first stab at this year’s 00Q Reverse Bang. It ended up with a lot of loose ends and a plot that would not be easily wrapped up. It also started going in an angst direction that I wasn’t prepared for. I might pick it back up. I might not. But hey, it’s Evil Author Day, so enjoy a look.

Q strolled through the front doors of the darkened pub, listening to the realtor patter about the structure, the antique oak bar, and the history of the tiny business in the heart of London. 

As he entered, he noted the broad windows overlooking the Thames at the back, a significant find in a structure this old. To his right, he noted the advertised antique oak bar, a long bit of polished wood that had darkened over time with use and wear. The narrow front room had just room enough for a few tables along the right, and a back corner booth, aged in the same oak, offered a private spot for a quiet meeting. A door to its left opened into a broader room, clearly a gathering place, that had a set of steps twining up to a second level just to the right of its entrance.

“What’s upstairs?” Q asked.

“A few old rooms and a bath,” the realtor, a shiny blonde woman, said. “The rumor is that it was once a brothel space, but I think it more likely the owners hired out the rooms for a night. It’s quite an old business.”

“Is there at least a loo downstairs for patrons?” Q asked.

“Through there,” she said, pointing to an old-fashioned snug behind the main bar. “Just the one, I’m afraid, and I’m not at all certain the previous owners used it for the public.”

The wall between the bar and the snug clearly marked what was once a boundary between one business and the next—it was at least 18 inches thick. Q smiled.

“This is quite nice,” he remarked. “Let’s see the upstairs.”

The realtor led the way, continuing her talk about the original woodwork, the original well-worn stone floors, the sheer magnitude of its history. Located within a stone’s throw of the Houses of Parliament, the pub had apparently seen its share of rumor, conspiracy, and spy craft.

Q left his smile in place as they went up the the narrow, winding stair to the second floor. As promised, it wasn’t spectacular. Four small rooms with doors anchored in the main hall, which culminated in a common bathing room that included a modern toilet and shower stall.

“Nothing further up?” Q asked.

“Just attic,” she said. “Need a ladder to get up there, though.” She pointed to a recessed panel above the landing.

Q hummed, viewing each of the bare rooms. “Zoning?”

“Commercial, though you’ll need licensing for the bar and these rooms if you plan to let them.”

“I see,” he said quietly. “And this is in my price range? Why is it even available?”

“Ah, well, the property is in an historic district and there’s few who’d be interested in maintaining it for its history. The owner died some time ago, and his children and grandchildren live in America now. None of them wanted it. The terms are pretty strict that it can’t be modified, renovated, or torn down, and in this location? The big developers that can afford it wouldn’t want it for those reasons, and small proprietors can’t really afford the price,” the realtor said glumly. “The lease agreement for the land under the building ends in 2075, with no renegotiation option, so it’s quite iron clad about the property use and authorized renovations.”

“Fortunately, I can afford it,” Q said calmly, with another glance around. “And I think it’s perfect.”

The realtor beamed. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

…

A month later, Q had closed on the space and was starting his allowed, limited renovations. The rooms upstairs he’d decided to make into meeting rooms, for small, discreet conversations among the politicians he hoped to attract. Fresh paint, refinished floors, rugs, and comfortable seating areas, along with an icebox and mini-bar, turned plain rooms into inviting spaces.

He also quietly wired each room for audio and video, using newly acquired paintings and their heavy frames to do the job and keep to his agreement.

Both loos got an overhaul, too, with new fixtures and paint.

Q couldn’t do too much with the worn stone floor on the first floor, but it got a thorough cleaning and inspection. Whomever had first laid that floor knew his business, Q thought, and it had been built to last. 

He polished the bar, put in some tables, and contracted with a nearby restaurant to provide food for his patrons as needed, stocking his snug with snacks and the bar with beverages. 

The wall between the bar and the snug, however, got his complete attention. As he’d thought when he saw it, wall concealed a hidey-hole. With a few tricks of his own, Q ensured the space was well-stocked with surprises.

Every inch of the place could be viewed on video, or heard on audio, and every bit could be streamed to Q’s central processing unit, located behind a screen in the snug, in a space designated as his office.

He planned to open when the Houses did, and sent advertising cards around to MP offices offering a free pint at his grand opening.

…

James Bond showed up at the MI6 offices after a long mission that involved him, several extremely smart and attractive women, and designer drugs. It had taken him six months to break the drug ring and take care of the leaders, and he fully expected to return to MI6 and make the Quartermaster talk to him.

For the entire six months of his mission, Q had been out of touch.

R had handled Bond’s extraction and general needs. He’d been competent enough, but Bond wondered what his Quartermaster had been up to.

To find that Q was not at MI6 disturbed and disappointed him.

“He took early retirement, Bond,” M told him calmly. “Not sure quite what he’s up to at the moment, but he’s not been in our employ for some time.”

“Early retirement?” Bond scoffed. “I don’t believe that. And I highly doubt you’d let an asset of Q’s quality go without any sort of tag.”

M smiled. “He had his reasons, and I agreed with him. And he’s taken back his civilian name, you know. He’s Ford Holmes, and I’m sure you can track him down if you really want to.”

“Fine,” Bond said stiffly. “Am I cleared to go?”

“You have a mandatory thirty-day leave after a mission of that length,” M affirmed. “We’ll be touch.”

Bond rose and headed to Q-branch to corner R.

…

Q surveyed the main room once more. Soft, cream paint adorned the walls, with tasteful sconces and drapery framing the large windows. The bar had been polished to a fine sheen, and he’d stocked it, ready for service. Matching oak tables of varied sizes, with plenty of room between, ran along the left side of the room, and the drapes also framed the door to the larger gathering space. 

A workman was installing the final piece: a sign hanging from above the front door that read, “Holmes & Co.”

Holmes and Company.

Q smiled as the last bolt went into place, and he opened the heavy oak door. 

He was in business.

…

Thanks to the free pints, his soft opening went well. His brothers and their significant others stopped by briefly, as did a number of MPs after close of session across the way. Catered snacks from the traditional restaurant across the way (in exchange for his services in re-wiring the restaurant’s security scheme) added to the overall genial atmosphere.

Otherwise, his place was perfect, a place to meet for a quiet conversation over a pint. Q tended the bar himself, but he could see that if this kind of crowd continued, he’d want to hire a second bartender to keep things running smoothly.

Much of the crowd had died down when James Bond walked in.

Q continued stocking the bar as Bond sat down on a stool in front of him.

“Q,” Bond acknowledged.

“There’s no one here by that name, Bond,” Q said, unperturbed, as he ensured the number of top shelf liquors matched the inventory. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred,” Bond said absently. “What possessed you to open a pub?”

“I’ve always wanted one,” Q said whimsically, mixing the drink and pouring it out in front of Bond. “Olive?”

“No, thank you,” Bond said, taking a sip. “It’s perfect.”

Q smiled, and went back to stocking the the bar, nodding at the last two patrons who walked out with a wave.

“Hmm,” Bond intoned, lowly, taking another sip and noting that he was the last person there, aside from Q. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“About what?”

“Your second job.”

“My only job,” Q corrected him. “Until further notice, I run this pub. I am not available for any of your other shenanigans.”

“That’s it?” Bond asked. “No discussion, no acknowledgement?”

Q snorted. “What’s there to discuss?”

“How about the fact that it’s my fault you’re here and not where you belong?”

Q turned back to the inventory sheet and carefully laid the iPad on which he’d been recording numbers down. “I think you assign yourself too much responsibility, Bond.”

“What else am I supposed to think,  _ Ford _ ?” Bond asked, smoothing a lapel. “We spend the night together and you disappear.”

“I think you’ve got that a little turned around, Bond,” Q said calmly. “You used me and my body to calm yourself after a particularly difficult mission. Nothing more, as you were sure to point out to me. It should hardly be a wonder if I gave you the space you required afterward.”

“I didn’t want space!” Bond shouted.

“Well, it’s unfortunate for you that I did, then.” Q drew a deep breath. “Are you finished?”

“Hardly.” Bond drew himself up a bit, but Q cut him off before he could start.

“Bond, you are hardly the first to decide he needed physical comfort after a long mission. It’s fortunate for you that I was more than amenable, and unfortunate that you appear to have gotten attached. I’d apologize, but it’s really not your usual MO.” He tapped on an app that automatically updated the inventory system as he went. “You moved on to a new mission fairly quickly. I’m not sure what you expected from me.”

“I wanted you where I left you,” Bond said, slumping. “You were meant to be right where I left you so that I could talk to you about this. About us.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “What us?”

Bond tossed back the rest of his drink. “Yes, I think you’ve made that abundantly clear.” He stood, smoothing the lapels of his suit. “Best of luck,  _ Ford.  _ I’m sure you’ll be utterly bored.”

“Goodbye, Bond.”

…

Q frowned as he closed up, locked up, and set the security. Bond might have had unrealistic and arrogant assumptions, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Q  _ had _ needed space after that night. And this opportunity wasn’t entirely a distraction; it was, in fact, a bit more.

…

 

Days passed. Ford enjoyed his new pub. He enjoyed the company, the rhythm of the days, and the steady increase in business. 

The first time a politician set up a private meeting in on of his rooms, he gave an internal fist pump, and recorded the whole thing. The recordings went to MI6, who shared information with MI5, who occasionally found it actionable. 

Whispers began to make their way into London’s grayer quarters that  _ Holmes & Co. _ could provide a bit more privacy than the average pub, and from those shadows, another element began to emerge to use Ford’s space. 

For a price, they were guaranteed privacy. And so long as nothing illegal actually happened on his premises, Ford guaranteed security, as well. 

His spaces were discreet, cozy, and before long, too popular for Ford to keep up on his own. Ford had to hire help.

…

  
  
  
  



End file.
